


this is the start of something beautiful.

by oharlem



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, New Year's Eve, Pre-Hell, Team Free Will, bit o' fluff, it's only destiel if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:08:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oharlem/pseuds/oharlem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>" When the sky burst into colour, fireworks and cheers erupting from the next town over, Dean finally slumped, boneless, into the hood of the Impala and Cas, more refined, followed suit. Their bottles clinked in the night, and the shared warmth from where their shoulders brushed was enough to open Dean’s mouth, telling stories of his childhood as they rang in the new year on the side of a South Carolina road. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is the start of something beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> or:
> 
> The one in which Dean and Cas bond and Sam is that much happier for it.

Coasting over the low hills of North Carolina, Dean Winchester took the time to breathe for once in the past twenty-four hours. Sam was passed out next to him in the passenger seat, and Cas was perched in the back, eyes never once having left Dean’s grip on the steering wheel for the three hours they’d been on the road. It’d be disconcerting if he wasn’t so used to it by now— the angel popping in and out of his life, leaving cryptic messages and too-long, too-hard stares in his wake.

Dean adjusted his hands, cracked his back, and settled once more into the driving trance that had begun to seep into his bones. It had been a long day, a long week, and the familiar feel of the Impala around him sent a slice of comfort to his heart— his girl would take care of them. The sky was dark and stars flickered just out of reach of the clouds and the car sailed down the abandoned highway. Trees, bare in the late December cold, stretched on either side of the road, branches climbing into the night.

He wasn’t usually the one to think too hard— that was Sammy’s [job](http://oharlem.tumblr.com/tagged/my_writing)— but the night was wearing on and tired silence fell like a blanket around his shoulders. Dean had been spit on, shot at, possessed, and bloodied, but nothing was ever worse than this, than the quiet in the dead of night. His mind wandered to subjects he hadn’t touched on in months, years even. Politics, school, what it meant to be alive and hunting— weary thoughts drifted in and out of his mind, and, all the while, an angel watched.

They drove on for eighty more miles, easily passing over the state line into South Carolina, and Dean marked the miles with a drum of his fingers. The clock crept past ten, to eleven, and further still until it was almost twelve. It was Cas, though, not the time, that brought Dean back to the surface.

**“** Dean. **”**

He didn’t startle, but there was a slight tensing of his shoulders, then a quiet exhale and the tightness left.

**“** Jesus Christ, Cas, I told you to stop doing that. **"**

Dean’s words held no real bite, it was far too late for that, but it felt good to have the familiar phrase on his tongue.

**“** I apologise, but there is something I needed to bring to your attention. **”**

The angel leaned forward in his seat, and Dean caught sight of the quizzical look ever-present on the other’s face.

**“** Fine, whatever. What is it? **”**

**“** It is December 31st. **”**

Dean frowned, the crease in his eyebrows deepening at the statement. They had been to four towns in just as many days, fighting a string of demons and a cluster of vampires on the way and Dean really wasn’t in the mood to decode anything that Cas said.

**“** What about it, Cas? **”**

Castiel tilted his head, eyes still locked on Dean, though there was a definite flicker to the dull green light of the Impala’s clock. He inched forward once more, head visible between the passenger and driver’s seats and Sam snuffled, rolling his head in sleep to face away from the angel.

**“** Is it not almost the New Year? I had believed that humans celebrated the passing. **”**

Dean’s fingers clenched around the worn leather, working stiffly into the familiar grooves of the wheel. It was an innocent enough question, but it was one rarely asked. The fact of the matter was that the Winchesters hadn’t celebrated New Year’s since they were young children, since Mary was alive. John and Dean, barely old enough, then, to reach his father’s hip, hadn’t seen the point in ushering in a new year. Especially when there was no one there to pour the wine and gather up the boys for firecrackers in the street.

It was another one of the days that they Didn’t Talk About.

**“** Yeah, so? We don’t— end of conversation. **”**  


**“** Why not? **”**

And  _there_ , there it was, the fundamental difference between everyone else and the Winchester boys. Sam would have let it go, he would have understood, and Bobby, though not a Winchester by blood, would have known enough to leave it alone with nothing more than a clap on the shoulder. But, no, not Cas. He had to pursue the issue, he had to ask ‘why’, and it was far too late for Dean to do anything but answer him in the best way he could.

So, he pulled over to the side of the road, muscles still locked in discomfort, and cut the engine. Wordlessly, Dean unwound himself from the warmth of the Impala and stalked out into the chill of the Carolina air. He walked a few feet away and shoved his hands in the pockets of his battered jeans, feeling very much the rebellious teenager who refused to look his problems in the eye. In some ways, almost twenty years later, he hadn’t changed a bit.

Castiel waited patiently by the car, old trench coat swaying gently in the breeze. His eyes burned holes into the other and, not for the first time, he thought upon the enigma that was Dean Winchester. Heart hard, but eyes soft, gun cocked but smile ready, with one foot out the door and the other firmly placed with family— Castiel wasn’t sure how one human being could contain such contradictions.

Minutes passed, slowly, carefully, and Dean returned to the Impala, eyes not meeting the other’s. He walked past Castiel and to the trunk and, much to the angel’s surprise, pulled out two beers. His shoulders, Dean’s, were still tense, but the fierce, pained edge had faded from his face, and Cas accepted the bottle hesitantly.

No words passed between them as they drank, Dean with fervor and Cas with the occasional sip. No more than twenty miles away, the men could hear a countdown beginning as it neared closer and closer to midnight.

When the sky burst into colour, fireworks and cheers erupting from the next town over, Dean finally slumped, boneless, into the hood of the Impala and Cas, more refined, followed suit. Their bottles clinked in the night, and the shared warmth from where their shoulders brushed was enough to open Dean’s mouth, telling stories of his childhood as they rang in the new year on the side of a South Carolina road.

In the morning, Sam would wake up with a crick in his neck and a bad taste in his mouth— nothing too unusual for having slept in the Impala. He would stumble neatly out of the car, back cracking hideously as he did so, into the early morning light. Stretching once, twice, then turning slowly to check on the others, Sam would catch sight of a lukewarm bottle of beer and a note scribbled in his brother’s handwriting. He would glance into the backseat of the car, see the pair slumped into each other with twin bottles littering the floor, and he would grin.

**‘** _Happy New Year, Sammy. Mom would’ve been proud._ **’**

**‘** Happy New Year **’** , he would think while watching the two sleep, closer in bond than they had been just a few hours before—  **‘** Happy New Year **’**.


End file.
